


the nights are a different story

by greybird



Category: The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
Genre: >:(, ...maybe write a sequel for me?? please??, Angst and Feels, But mostly fluff, Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'm lookin at you khaled hosseini, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage, Kite Runner Fix-It, Nightmares, Rare Fandoms, Recovery, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, a fan of the book and even the ending but also too obsessed with the book to let it go, all that gud family content, brought to you by greybird, but also lots of sad, but this fic is all about recovery, can't get enough of them nightmare comfort scenes, greybird you would, lots of fluff, oooof that's a lot of scary warnings for one thing, our boy sohrab deserved more hugs, poor kid, thanks for coming to my ted talk, the recovery thAT WASN'T IN THE BOOK, were alsO NOT IN THE BOOK, which by the way, y'know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greybird/pseuds/greybird
Summary: [Discontinued-ish. I had a big beautiful plan for this story about nightmares and recovery but, unfortunately, I haven't touched it in months and it just sort of... sits here. I don't have the heart to delete it, though, despite the fact that my writing has changed and I don't particularly like how I wrote this. Maybe one day I'll return to it, anyway. For now, though, it's not a project I'm working on.]-Frankly, you’d never know Sohrab was mute for nearly two years. You’d never know that he’d lived in a nightmare and you’d never know that he survived some sort of real-life horror story because here he is in the daytime, thirteen, smiling, talking, breathing, as if the years in Afghanistan were gone from his memory.But the nights are a different story.
Relationships: Amir & Sohrab (Kite Runner), Amir/Soraya (Kite Runner), Soraya & Sohrab (Kite Runner)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	the nights are a different story

Flying a kite some six months ago seemed to have started something, some snowballing recollection of what trust I had broken. And throughout these months, Sohrab started talking. It began just in rare single words, but that led us down a broader path to the occasional sparse comments, and then, slowly, conversation was a quiet thing that filled our home once again. Sohrab in this time became more alert, more present, which meant he was starting to recover, thankfully. But it also meant that he flinched at every door closing, startled at any slight raise of voice-- still, I would take anxious eyes I can calm over dull ones I can't, any day.

Soraya is relieved. I can't say I didn't see a part of her wilt away at the silence that hung over us for so long, and silently I blamed myself that she hadn't had the chance to be the mother to him she wanted to. But now that is over, and we're both sort of lighter, with a renewed sense of knowing that things will be okay. He will be okay. 

I'm reminded of this when she tells him, in the morning, as she brushes a hand through his hair, that "I've _got_ to remember to get you a haircut," and he smiles. 

I walk to another room but faintly, through the open door, I hear him say, "Not too short, though?"

Ultimately, he seems to be doing well. He smiles. He's talking. He's _breathing_ , and if for nothing else, I am so grateful for that alone. His teachers adore him and our neighbors seem to have left behind the idea of the "poor little mute one," and instead they ask things like " _How is your darling little boy?"_ He seems happy. I asked, some few weeks ago in the daytime, I said, "Sohrab jan... are you happy?" And he thought about it for a minute, wanting to give me an honest answer, and he said, "Yes. I think so." I hugged him then, and quietly, I thanked God, whatever god let this boy come back to us. 

Sohrab once explained to me, one evening while Soraya was away and I had him wrapped in my arms with the faint sound of _Star Wars_ playing in front of us, that he did miss his old life. He said it guiltily, nearly, as if he needed me to know that living in America with food in the pantry and a trusty AC in the summer and a burglar alarm at the ready hadn't changed the fact that he was still grieving his family. That he hadn't forgotten them amidst being so suddenly carefree, so suddenly allowed to be a child. So I told him, as his eyes fluttered open and then heavily closed between every few seconds, that that was okay. 

"I miss the old normal, but..." he said, and then he paused. Restarted. "Things are different, but good. It's a good new normal." His voice started fading into a mumble as he fell asleep. "I'm glad you, you found me. I like it here." 

Soraya's parents-- and Baba, if he were here, for that matter-- wouldn't have liked that I grabbed a blanket, wrapped it over his shoulders, and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, and stayed with him until Soraya came home. They would advise I don't tell him there's nothing wrong with asking for something like a hug in the morning or staying near, keeping him close after reliving some bad memory, as if there were something wrong with this casual affection. _That's your wife's job, nay?_ But there are a lot of traditions from home I've decidedly left out of our place in America, and for good reason. They would say _What are you doing, Amir? You'll raise him all soft and he'll never grow into a man._

They would say a lot of things, I can already hear them, but I don't care. On the contrary. I loved Baba but I can't say that he didn't leave me with a gaping feeling of something missing when I was a child; I vowed when I had children in my own home they would never have to chase me as I did him. A little bit of kindness and attention is what eventually led to this light in his eyes. I'm not about to turn him down when Sohrab wanders into the kitchen before school, hair a mess, and rests his head against my shoulder sleepily as I stand with coffee in one hand. 

In the daytime, you'd never know what kind of life Sohrab has seen. 

The nights are a different story. 


End file.
